Whacked

Today I’ve been talking like one of the Wayans brothers. Man I love that shit. That shit’s whack. W.H.A.C.K. brother.

It was brought to my attention that I dig this shit so much, that few would be surprised to learn that my ancestors were chilling on the beach waving at the ships when Jan van Riebeck arrived. Personally, I would not be shocked to discover I was part hottentot. Not in the least.

The degree of my shit-talking today is directly proportionate to the number of Nescafe (yes, you get it in Dubai) double-scoop instant coffees I have thrown at my face this morning.

My love affair with caffeine is comparable to Elvis’s relationship with peanut butter and bacon sandwiches during the latter part of his life. Much like being in love, abusing the beverage both raises my heart rate and keeps me awake at night.

I was dangerously close to rock bottom back at Varisty when someone slipped me an ice-cold bottle of Bioplus during exams. During my Philosophy 1.0 paper I felt like a band of circus mice were holding a kung fu demonstration at the back of my throat and my eyeballs were being inflated with a bicycle pump. NEVER again.

Caffeine and I patched up our differences when I became part of the working world however. Nothing beats the black filter coffee I used to abuse at Sunday Times. Those moon-bag wearing, grubby-fingernailed emaciated jounos inhaled the stuff like it was oxygen, along with their 60 Camel filters a day. I swear it was hallucinogenic.

God I miss it.